When asked how he was going to avoid anal rape in prison, Shkreli had this clever response.

Well, well, muthafuckin well. What do we have here? It couldn’t be The Most Hateable Man in the World getting sent on a nice relaxing vacation to the grey bar hotel, now would it? That would be an almost too perfect and sitcom-like outcome for words…

But I’ll try anyway. In a display of cosmic justice, future shank pincushion Martin Shkreli—who you may remember as 2015’s very definition of hateable until certain politicians surged past him the following year—has just lost the most landmark court case since the infamous Hoe v. Spade. Evidently the man most famous for buying the patent to a new AIDS vaccine and promptly raising the price literally five thousand fuckin percent has just been convicted of what else but financial fraud. Gee who would guess someone so selfless would get caught being greedy?

Even more important than any financial chicanery or that silly AIDS business though is Shkreli’s much more heinous crime against humanity, namely, his two million dollar purchase of the only copy of an album once dismissed as only an oft-whispered about but fantastic legend, like footage of Bigfoot, or an exciting Mayweather fight. But unlike most such obvious myths this miraculous album does indeed exist. Two years ago humanitarian Shkreli successfully pickpocketed enough eighty-pound AIDS patients to raise the two mill to get his filthy paws on Wu Tang’s “Once Upon A Time In Shaolin.” Then instead of making it available to the masses, which would instantly absolve him of his minor AIDS transgressions even to the dying patients themselves, the slimy piece of greedy shit uploaded it onto a special iPod or whatever, and has since kept the audio version of the contents of Marcellus Wallace’s briefcase to his scummy self, depriving all of mankind of its boundless precious gifts. It’s like buying the Fountain of Youth and taking a piss in it.

But thankfully the only music Shkreli will be concerned with from now on is avoiding a personal re-mix of “Jailhouse Cock.” Truth be told, I don’t know any of the details of his case and I don’t give a fuck. The important thing was that the outcome was a big, fat, AIDS-infected “L” for human canker sore Shkreli, who now has to look forward to potential decades in prison during sentencing. Think about that. Not just years, but fuckin decades in prison. Either he stole an absolute assload of money, or he’s getting a little O.J.-style overzealous sentencing for his true crime of aggravated fuckfacery. It couldn’t happen to an eviler guy.

And how fitting too. Now after his long-awaited arrival is announced over the prison PA system and Shkreli is turned into a human punching bag/jizz rag by swarms of giant angry convicts, he won’t be able to get a discount on the AIDS vaccine he’ll so desperately need. I believe that is what they call karma.

Author’s Note: While looking for a picture of this certain long-lost Hitler relative just now, I stumbled across a caption explaining that Shkreli had indeed played some of the priceless Wu audio for public consumption, and guess when? Just as he had promised months prior, only the day after Cunt was installed as the fake president by Putin. Can you fuckin believe that? That’s the kind of horrifying event the cocksucker was waiting for before finally deciding to bless our ear drums? Talk about a gift and a curse. Forget what I said about convicts giving Shkreli his cum-uppance, this blight on humanity needs to be given the death penalty. By fatal flying guillotine.

Speaking with one of my many idiotic friends of the African persuasion the other day, I was introduced to the rather inexplicable phenomenon of rampant anti-bagel prejudice in the ‘hood. Why in the hell bagels are as shunned as klansmen in the ghetto is beyond me, but for some reason it’s true. All the anecdotal evidence required to make such a snap judgment came when my boy was recently chatting with a chum, aka chilling with his nigga, and suddenly his tummy started a-rumbling.

“Damn I’m hungry,” he oafishly complained. “I’m bout to go get a bagel.”

You would have thought he just said he was about to go shop at The Gap. His rather G’d out companion guffawed loudly and proclaimed, “Bagels? Real niggas don’t eat bagels,” thus touching off a rather spirited and yeast-infected debate between the two.

“Yo, when you ever see a hood nigga eatin’ a bagel?” His potentially anti-Semitic yet ironically meshuganah homie further inquired, to which my boy had no real answer other than stating the rather obvious fact that a bagel is just bread. So hood niggas don’t eat bread now? I don’t think so. So why the bagel blackball?

Not that I make it a habit to visit very often, or ever, but doesn’t the projects have almost as many Dunkin’ Donuts as gun shops? What do supposed “real niggas” get their breakfast sandwiches on, a muthafuckn croissant? Now that’s a faggy piece of bread. But a little bagel in your life never bothered anybody. Except this modern-day Doughboy apparently.

This isn’t the exact picture in question but it’s damn close. You get the idea. It’s not exactly a “Hang in there kitty” poster.

I went to a new doctor recently to check on my elephantitis of the penis and when I went into the guy’s office and sat down I almost fell out of my chair. On the back wall behind him was the most gigantic fuckin picture of the Holocaust I’ve ever seen. It looked like something Elie Wiesel would hang in his office. Or Derek Vineyard.

What do I mean by picture of the Holocaust? Well, imagine a ten by ten blown-up photograph in eerie black and white, and covering the entire thing are wall-to-wall dead concentration camp victims. Like an infinite stack of them. It’s the most horrible game of Tetris ever. It was such an over-the-top picture I felt like I was in an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm. I don’t know where that charming photograph came from, but I suspect it was out of Dr. Mengele’s porn collection.

Speaking of which, it couldn’t have been more jarring than if i sat down at the doctor’s desk and a giant mural of penises was hanging directly behind him. Even that would have been less awkward. Because I’m sitting there trying to maintain eye contact and not stare at these fuckin piles of skeletal dead Jews in front of my face. It looks like they crammed all six million into that picture. And meanwhile now all I want to do is ask six million questions, starting with, “Dude, what the fuck?” I mean, how about a nice dreidel or something on your desk. You know, something a little more subtle than a gargantuan portrait of Auschwitz’s Gretest Hits to let the world know your reppin’ it Jew School.

Well no matter. I resisted the urge to tell him not to overcharge me and we went about business as usual.

Through a series of mishaps I’ve found myself with my father’s cell phone for the last few days, and it sure gets some peculiar calls. Seconds ago the shit rang, and despite the weird “855” area code, I picked up anyway out of sheer boredom.

“Hello,” said an obviously automated voice, and before I could reply with something fittingly crude, suddenly my phone was ringing as though I was making a call. Intrigued, I stayed on the line to see where this phone vortex would take me. Suddenly it’s the first automated chick’s sister on the line telling me, “All of our operators are currently busy, but please stay on the—”

I hung up before she could finish her canned spiel. I don’t know what company that was for—if my dad’s phone trolls are anything like mine likely some hooey about solar panels or re-something’ing my car’s warrantee—but that sure is one ineffective way to reach potential customers. That’s like when you get a call from somebody who immediately tells you to hang on for a second. Like, muthafucka you called me. Get your shit together.

“The trick is to tell ’em you’re prejudiced against all races.” -Homer Simpson on how to get out of jury duty

Everyone’s favorite treat to arrive in their mailbox this side of a package from The Unabomber graced my dad’s house (for the good of all involved, I don’t receive mail at my house due to incidents described in the enraging “Frail Man”) and I was delighted to see that I had been summoned to jury duty.

I’ll never forget the joy of my first jury experience, although sadly I wasn’t chosen because I left early in utter disgust. Seated in a room of jackasses for umpteen hours had me feeling more than a little squirrely when our motley crew was finally ushered into the courtroom where we immediately learned that this was only the first half of our lovely day before the big draft. First half? Yep. We were supposed to get lunch and return for more pointlessness.

Having filled out my juror card issued in the first room in a sour mood, some of my comments apparently had the judge’s period senses tingling as she publicly “ragged ” on me. I can’t remember what I wrote exactly, but her response was some bullshit-ass sanctimonious speech about how vitally important to society and awesome juries are, and how much of an asscrack I was for thinking otherwise. I took the admonishment under careful advisement as I bounced during recess and went home to smoke some weed. Fuck them. If I’m not picked, they won’t care I left, and if I am picked, oh well. It must have been the former because I never heard a peep about it.

This is rattling around my brain now though as I have a sinking feeling I’m destined to be the number one draft pick this time around. Imagine if it’s to sit on some epic case like the O.J. trial too. Fa-huuuuuck that. The ringside seat must have been nice, but I bet those jurors would have rather watched the proceedings on TV after a few months of no contact with the outside world like the were Typhoid Mary.

Aside from potential imprisonment in a courtroom, the worst part about my upcoming doody will be the visit to the always cheerful courthouse. At least it’s the Taunton one and not like an hour away, but every courthouse is the same once you get inside anyway: a depressing, vile nightmare where scum and squares uneasily share quarters, though never the two shall meet.

The staffs are great too, from the metal detector jockeys, to the clerks, to the secretaries, to even the lawyers, every single person who works in a courthouse has the demeanor that suggests they’re on the verge of holding their nose. They’re equally unsympathetic, cynical, and condescending to everyone they encounter. They act like teachers who hate teaching and are on their last tenured year. During my last jury experience I had the impulse to say at least a dozen times, “No I’m just here for jury duty. I’m not really scum. Honest.” Then again, it’s not surprising that working among the dregs of society on a daily basis makes them detest anybody who isn’t also a staff member on general probability. You ever sit on one of those court benches? It looks like Beetlejuice’s waiting room.

“A thousand. We got a thousand dollars to punch me in the face. Do I hear two thousand?”

“Disappear, vamoose you’re wack to me” -Biggie, Flava In Ya Ear remix

Walking caricature of a mob attorney, Anthony “The Mooch” Scaramucci, displayed the kind of eloquence you would expect from a newly-appointed communications advisor, spouting off like John Potty-mouth in a profanity-laced interview to The New Yorker of all goddamn places and surprise, surprise they published it. Looks like that damn fake news strikes again, eh?

During his ramblings, the Goodfellas nickname reject made colorful statements ranging from Reince Preibus being a “paranoik” (we sure his nickname isn’t “The Mook?”), Steve Bannon wanting to “suck his own cock”, and that he’d like to kill all the leakers, despite the fact that he was in essence leaking about the White House turmoil himself with every idiotic utterance. Since he killed his own political career, maybe he wasn’t kidding.

With typical trademark loyalty, the second The Mook became a liability he was tossed out of the White House on his Guinea ass after only ten days on the job. The fuckin guy literally hadn’t even been sworn in yet. But the funniest thing of all is the White House’s astounding reason for the firing: Trump was offended. Holy shit, good luck to his nutball supporters keeping a straight face after hearing that one. So “grab her by the pussy” is okay, but “suck his own cock” is too offensive to tolerate? Nice to see there’s some standards in the White House.

Here’s Simpson sporting his Bruno Magli prison sandals. This was taken right before he struck the Heisman pose.

I hope you noticed the lack of outrage over former Husbands of the Year O.J. Simpson being paroled recently, for the unpardonable crime of taking his stuff back from the guys who stole it. I never really understood what happened there. Didn’t some shifty fans finagle O.J.’s junk and he tracked them down like the real-life Nordberg and retrieved his crap? Okay sure, on the tape O.J. and his criminal offensive line burst in the room like wannabe badasses, with one of O.J.’s flunkies brandishing a pistol. Perhaps not the most polite way to conduct a meeting. But then as all I recall all O.J. did was rant and rave (now we know what audio from that fateful night in 1994 probably sounded like) about how pissed he was at the thieves, before he and the Juice Crew promptly took the shit and left. It was kind of like a tame version of the Big Kahuna Burger scene in Pulp Fiction. Except inside O.J.’s briefcase was garbage.

But the whole shit-brained scheme was soon found out by police and somehow blew up in O.J.’s face—he really is a lousy criminal—and the next thing you know there’s taped conversations, and eyewitnesses, and his co-defendants singing like Luther Vandross, and O.J. gets put on trial. Deja vu. Except this time he was justifiably cocky about getting off—wonder why—and turned down an initial plea deal which would have resulted in no jail time. That was the worst move he made since playing for the chargers. He lost the case and a female judge (she better be looking over both shoulders from now on if she wants to keep her head on top of them) gave him the ludicrous sentence of thirty three flippin years. I guess thirty two would have been spiking the football a little too much. O.J. must have thought he was on Punk’d, or in his vernacular, he must have thought he was on Candid Camera.

But honestly, we all know what that overzealous sentence was for: those awful Hertz commercials. Oh plus the double homicide. That’s why nobody gave a fuck when the crazily harsh sentence came down. It was everyone’s chance to ruin O.J.’s last laugh. People, meaning white people, we’re pissed that he juked out and stiff-armed the system all those years ago and now it was finally time for his comeuppance.

Which is why here we are now fifteen years later and it’s like, “O.J.? Oh yeah I forgot all about him. Is he still in jail?” Now he’s being hastily let out like a naughty child that’s been banished to their bedroom. I don’t even know any of the details other than he was up for parole and he won. And the world shrugged.

After all, we’ve all seen that famous Chris Rock bit by now. And then that epic O.J. documentary really sealed it for me. As Jay-Z would ironically say, can he live? I mean, the man did his time. It might not have been for the right crime, but it was close enough. Now the Juice is loose and flowing freely once again.

No wonder the little pussy is getting concussions, he’s got no helmet on. I might have had sympathy, but since he’s wearing a Manning jersey fuck him.

A recent shocking study of 111 NFL players that showed 110 of them had some signs of CTE (who was the 111th guy, a kicker?) has just hastened the end of the sport as we know it for kids. Football’s already at an all-time low for youth participation as it is, and nowadays, what mother is gonna send her little son to get his brains turned into scrambled eggs? That’s understandable of course but it still sucks for the kids. Because when I start thinking about my own youth football days they weren’t about head injury hooey—all I remember is how fuckin fun they were. The memories of youth sports in general stay with you forever, but for me football’s are by far the most vivid.

The first Pop Warner tale that sticks out to me is Mikey’s Big Run. Against shitbag Falmouth, who our coach hated so much he literally asked us to win in a solemn Gipper-like speech before the game, down less than a touchdown with seconds to go around the forty yard line, our best player Mikey was supposed to fake a sweep and toss a last ditch Hail Mary. Instead, rushing defenders swarmed and Mikey was forced to improvise, escaping a game-ending sack and then weaving his way through defenders for an impossible TD run, leaving the field littered with would-be tacklers and somehow crossing the goal line after the clock had already struck zero.

Then there was The Parking Lot Game. Against every adult involved’s better judgment, we played a “scrimmage” against hated and similarly hooded Wareham on what was just a long, skinny strip of grass at the end of a parking lot. There were no yard markers, no downs, and no refs. Only two coaching staffs who had hated each other since their own days playing for the same cities. Though not on an adult scale, prison games were less violent, and there’s no way it would have even taken place if any parents were present. I don’t know who won since there was no score—there were no fuckin end zones for chrissake—but the two coaching staffs each loudly declared victory and the parking lot resembled a World Star video in a matter of minutes. Moral to the story: we re-matched the fucks in the playoffs and won in overtime. And don’t let drunk coaches arrange games.

And what stroll down memory lane would be complete without the self-indulgent? The Big Hit took place during my first week of practice when I was only in second grade. Taunton only fielded older teams at the time, so I ended up playing with a lotta fourth and fifth graders. You can see where this is going. During one Oklahoma drill, fate decided to match up against literally the tallest fuckin fifth grader on the whole team. I heard snickering from the players and maybe even a few coaches as we took our positions. Then the whistle blew and all I know is it felt like I went through a bead curtain. Meanwhile the coaches went absolutely bat shit watching the smallest kid on the team snuff the biggest. They were laughing and carrying on to the point where the next practice the tall kid searched me out like a pride-wounded and angry heat-seeking missile every kickoff drill. Thanks coaches.

There were blowout wins and humiliating losses, we were one game away from going to Florida before we lost on a phantom fumble, I broke my arm and my foot, there was a hot chick on our team who had the nicest ass ever—but overall when I think of youth football I think of the fun. Not concussions and other horseshit. Just some little kids having pure fuckin fun.

Looks like fearsome soldiers like this need to take their camouflaged high heels and get to stepping.

An insane tweet by the Antichrist sparked outrage among the whole Alphabet Soup for Faggots community. Why, they were all represented. Fags, lezbos, trannys, dykes, he-shes, queers, homos, and even skib-skabs and scallywags. Yes folks, it seems every LGBTQ OBGYN was represented in this one.

For reasons unbeknownst to anyone, tranny weirdos can no longer join the armed forces. This retardedness is supposedly over the high cost of the army paying for people to play Mr. Potato Head with their genitals, and while it’s almost as disgusting as the trannys themselves that the army shells out money for their so-called “necessary surgery”—which is about as necessary as getting breast implants, though a lot less pleasing to look at—it’s fuckin ridiculous to claim money is the reason they’re getting the combat boot. The Pentagon just got an unprecedented 54 billion dollar budget increase for fuck’s sake. Remember those fifty-something missiles Dickface shot into a sand trap a few months back? They cost 1.3 million dollars apiece and got tossed out like Halloween candy. The last problem the army has is a lack of funds.

Of course as usual this master plan of the “genius deal-maker” was hastily thrown together on fuckin Twitter with no plans of implementation whatsoever. Nobody even told the fuckin Pentagon. Meanwhile questions like, “What the fuck about the 15,000 tranny weirdos who currently serve?” or “Do those current trannys receive an Honorable Discharge if forced to leave?” never crossed the Alzheimers-addled brain of that orange scum.

But really there is some silliness to consider here. I mean, fifteen-fuckin-thousand? I didn’t even know there were that many hole-swappers in the whole world. Turns out the military is tranny weirdos number one employer, which highlights two things: people who join the military are nuts, and no wonder we haven’t won a war in over fifty fuckin years.

But the few chuckles this boobery provides are overshadowed by how blatantly discriminatory, mindless, and even criminally unconstitutional this latest example of why we need to let Hinkley out of jail is. If Cunt can arbitrarily ban people from employment over shit like this, how soon before it’s race and religion too? Hope Muslims and Mexicans are planning on retiring early. Remember the old poem, “And there was no one left to speak for me?” Well, we’re living it.

I experienced one of the great joys in life when at the biggest party of the summer, the world-renowned Chicken Day, I got all spiffed up and ready to do the town, meticulously picking out my fanciest outfit like I was D’Angelo Barksdale, fastidiously combing my hair and beard, and even putting on underwear, when two seconds after I arrived my fuckin cursed front tooth betrayed me again and snapped off. I hadn’t even made the rounds to say wuddup to prove I at least showed up with the goddamn thing intact. Talk about bad timing.

Talk about worse. Wouldn’t you know it, but who the fuck of all people in the known universe shows up but some chick I hadn’t seen in like ten years—and right when I look like a fuckin Jack-o-lantern. Oh sweet. Now instead of us each silently playing the “Who’s aged worse?” game in our heads, I can look like a meth dealer.

Because few things in life look stupider than a big gap-toothed smile plastered on your face. It’s hideous. People say it looks cute on six year-olds. I got news for ya. It doesn’t. It makes them look like mini crackheads.

Ironically enough I was about six years of age myself when I first cracked the fuckin thing, and it’s been cursed with a Seven-Year Itch for dislodging ever since, and not always at opportune times.

As my dad liked to constantly point out throughout my childhood, I barely had my “big” front teeth for a month when a monkeyshines-related folly resulted in my crying ass going to the dentist. Flash forward to eighth grade and a playful jousting match with wiffle ball bats with my neighbor got turned up a notch when he grabbed an aluminum bat and accidentally pool-cued the fucker right out of my mouth. In college it was Italian bread. In my late twenties, almost the exact same scenario as this latest one with my arch nemesis, corn on the cob. What’s it gonna be next time? It’s not gonna matter.

Thanks to the wonders of modern dentistry, my front tooth just keeps popping back into my mouth like a Wack-a-Mole game. It’s funny though how literally every single time I’ve opted to get a cheap-ass filling, the dentist invariably tries to sell me on getting a much more expensive crown in a manner not unlike a used car salesman. Each time their argument gets weaker than my tooth. It’s always the same shit: crowns last up to five years and fillings break easily. Really? Every filling I’ve ever had has lasted me over five years and they’re covered by my insurance. Crowns don’t guarantee me any more longevity and are like five times the cost. Decision over.

And it’s ending shortly. I’ve been walking around looking like Leon Spinks for two weeks, but my dentist appointment’s coming up. Hello new tooth, and goodbye to the homeless guy look. That makes it tooth: five, and the evil forces out to destroy it: zero.

Even still, I can’t help but wonder what cruel twist of fate or dastardly ear or corn my valiant yet cursed incisor could come up against next? Only time will tell…